Page 52 of Bound In Shadow

One thing is certain, I vow silently as we near the first enclave.I will not kill her.I might lose everything else—my throne, my city, my life—but I will not lose Lysandra to the council’s blade. Because for all my father’s teachings, for all my carefully built armor, I realize now that losing her is a fate I cannot endure. And that truth, stark and fierce, might reshape my destiny forever.

13

LYSANDRA

Ijolt awake in darkness, cold stone pressing against my spine. My wrists ache from manacles clamped too tightly around them, and a stale, bitter taste clings to my tongue. The lantern hanging from the low ceiling casts weak shadows across the cramped cell walls. Wherever I am, it’s not the same fortress chamber where Xelith kept me. This place reeks of mildew and desperation.

My mind reels, trying to piece together how I ended up here. I remember the farmland trip: Xelith riding at my side, our small retinue moving through the fields to negotiate with one of the enclaves. There was tension in the air, the council’s ultimatum looming over us. The plan was to convince my old allies that I remained loyal to their cause, while also preventing them from launching a suicidal rebellion. Xelith insisted on controlling the scenario, forging a delicate compromise.

But something went wrong. The enclaves refused to meet us openly, forcing us to press deeper into the farmland. We encountered ambushes—groups of humans too frightened or too angry to listen. They saw me with Xelith’s guard, presumably believing I had turned traitor. Then, out of nowhere, a squad ofheavily armed Dark Elves arrived, brandishing the council’s seal. I recall Xelith shouting for them to stand down, the confusion swirling, my allies scattering.

The next thing I know, a blow to the head knocked me off my horse. Then blackness.

I wiggle my shoulders, cursing at the fresh bruises.So much for the farmland compromise.Now I’m in some dank cell, no doubt awaiting the council’s final decree. Perhaps they decided to skip the pretense and imprison me on their own terms.

A hiss of pain escapes when I shift, straining against the iron chain that tethers me to a ring in the wall. My ankles remain free, but the shackles around my wrists prevent any illusions of escape. If I speak, I might enthrall someone—but a wave of dread gnaws at me. These walls are likely warded. The council might have already guessed I possess dangerous magic.If they fear I can enthrall them, they’ll have set precautions.

My head throbs, a dull ache pulsing behind my eyes. I drag myself upright and test the chain’s length. Two steps, at most. I squint at the corners of the cell, making out a barred iron door. No windows. Only a single lantern flickers overhead, the flame sputtering in stale air.Perfect for an interrogation.

A swirl of raw anger gathers in my chest.Where is Xelith?The last I saw, he was trying to defuse the standoff. Did the council’s forces overpower him? Did he let them drag me away, deciding it wasn’t worth the fight? Or is he bound somewhere else, forced to watch? The questions stab like a blade.

I slump against the wall, the cold seeping into my bones.If Xelith truly has cast me aside, then all is lost.The farmland enclaves will revolt or be slaughtered. The council gains its prize—my head on a pike.He said he wouldn’t betray me.But I recall the doubt in his eyes, the tension that’s plagued us since my escape attempt. Maybe he weighed his throne against me and chose the simpler path.

My fists clench.I won’t die passively.If Xelith doesn’t come, I’ll make a final stand. I can enthrall guards or orchestrate a desperate rescue. My illusions are unreliable, but my siren voice might unravel their minds, at least enough to carve a path out of here.

I exhale shakily, pressing my forehead to the rough stone.The risk is massive.If I enthrall the wrong person, the entire fortress might realize I’m sirenborn. That could trigger an even more vicious crackdown on humans. But time’s up—I can feel it in my pulse. The council gave Xelith a deadline, and I must assume it’s nearly here. If I wait meekly, I’ll end up on the execution block or in an inquisitor’s chamber.

Outside, footsteps echo, jolting me from dark thoughts. I lift my head. The door’s hinges screech, and I squint against the sudden influx of brighter torchlight. A guard steps inside—a tall Dark Elf in plain leathers, face hard as granite. Another guard waits behind him, crossbow leveled at me. They’re not taking chances.

“On your feet,” the first guard orders, voice rough.

I manage a derisive laugh, rattling the chain at my wrists. “Bit difficult, but I’ll try.”

He scowls. With a snap of his fingers, he yanks a key from his belt and moves closer, crossbow guard covering him. I weigh the odds of enthralling them both. My heart thunders, but the memory of Xelith’s warnings rings in my head— illusions might be warded against. And if I fail, they’ll shoot me where I stand.

The guard unlocks the chain from the wall but leaves the manacles on my wrists. He pulls me upright, grip bruising my arm. “Don’t struggle,” he growls. “We’ve orders to bring you before Lord Kalthos.”

I swallow.So they’ve chosen my fate.If Kalthos is involved, it means the council’s final verdict might be nigh. I let them marchme out, feigning a limp so they underestimate me. My entire body protests from bruises, but I grit my teeth.Focus, Lysandra.

We navigate a narrow hallway lit by guttering torches, each step resonating with dread. The stench of stale moisture and rot lingers. We reach a more refined corridor—smooth stone floors, carved pillars. Another set of wards, which hum as we pass.We’re back in the main fortress, or some high-security zone.My chest tightens at how easily they whisked me into this dungeon.

Before long, we arrive at a set of double doors. The crossbow guard knocks twice. A sharp voice from inside calls, “Enter.” The door opens to reveal a small, opulent receiving room. Velvet drapes frame high windows, a table in the center bearing decanters of wine. Two Dark Elves stand near it, tension etched into their postures. One is Lord Kalthos, dressed in regal finery, hawk-like gaze flicking over me. The other is Nyrus—my old tormentor, the one I enthralled. A flash of cold fear runs through me.He survived that fiasco, and clearly overcame his enthrallment.

“Place her here,” Kalthos says, gesturing to a spot on the marble floor near the table. My guards shove me forward, and I stumble. The chain rattles.

Nyrus crosses his arms, lips curling in a sneer. “So the captive emerges from her hole. Did you enjoy your solitude, rebel?”

I summon my bravado. “It’s better than your company, I’m sure.”

He bares his teeth. “You won’t be mocking for long.”

Kalthos raises a hand. “Enough. The council tires of waiting. We demanded the farmland be subdued or the human executed. Prince Xelith has accomplished little. We suspect he’s… compromised.”

Rage flares in my chest, though I keep my face stony. “He’s tried to avert needless slaughter. That’s compromise?”

Kalthos’ eyes narrow. “Slaughter might be simpler. But no matter. The deadline passes tonight. If Xelith fails to deliver your head by dawn, we act. Your presence here suggests you’ve run out of time, Lysandra.”

My heart pounds.Dawn. That must be only hours away.Fear threatens to choke me, but I force it down. “So you’ll kill me now and be done?”

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